Disfunctional Antifunctional and ExFunctional
by grannysknitting
Summary: Established relationship. A typical day in the life of John Watson. Or as typical as anything ever is when you're living with Sherlock Holmes.


**Disfunctional, Anti-functional and Ex-functional (Sherlock BBC fanfic)**

Set before 'Friends in Odd Places

November 21st, 20:47

Current Mood: amused

Current Music: classic FM

- or living with Sherlock Holmes  
0o0o0  
"Sherlock, have you seen the ascorbic acid?" John shouted from the kitchen as someone pounded on the front door. From the conspicuous silence coming out of the front room, Sherlock _had_ seen the ascorbic acid. The veteran sighed and leaned his head on the nearest cupboard door for a moment, counting to ten for patience.

"Such an unattractive expression, John, really!" Sherlock called as feet pounded up the stairs, "Mrs Hudson would say the wind will change and you'll get stuck that way."

It no longer occurred to John to ask how Sherlock knew what face he was pulling, or even why he was repeating one of Mrs Hudson's many mothering lines. Sherlock had taken to pronouncing old wives tales and fables at random moments the last week, and John was hoping that the trend was related to his current case. If the habit didn't cease with the case then there would be trouble at 221B Baker Street.

"Ah Lestrade, another drugs bust?" Sherlock sounded _far_ too happy about that and John sighed, giving up his quest and going to stand in the kitchen doorway. Sure enough, there was Geoff, backed by Donovan and Anderson and a few of the uniforms. John recognised two that Sherlock had offended at a crime scene recently, as well as Dave, whom John suspected of having a crush on his consulting sociopath and turned up in the oddest places.

"Now see here, Sherlock," Geoff began, shooting John an apologetic look. John left them too it and went back to put the kettle on. The milk was in the fridge, not off, un-tampered with and surprisingly not adjacent to any dismembered body parts today, which made a nice change. John collected it and returned to his tea making, pouring the remaining milk over his morning bowl of cereal. The kettle popped and John brewed up, taking mugs out to Geoff and Sherlock, who were currently standing over a collection of rusty keys, a boot and three international calling cards that had appeared on the coffee table.

"I'm going to work in twenty minutes," John announced to no one in particular, "We're out of milk and ascorbic acid."

The argument didn't even pause, though Geoff looked grateful for the tea. He shook his head and went back into the kitchen, rescuing his cereal from Anderson with a pointed look and sitting at the clear corner of the kitchen table to read the bits of the morning paper that Sherlock hadn't already cut out or defaced.

"Woohoo," Mrs Hudson knocked on the kitchen door as John was finishing his tea, "What is it this time, John dear?"

"Argument over evidence again, Mrs Hudson," John shook his head, "Don't worry, they'll sort it out shortly."

"Are you off to work then, dear?" she asked kindly as he rinsed his mug and bowl, moving around Donovan and her suspicious looks.

"Yes, I've got a longer shift today. It's sniffles season, so take your vitamins," he cautioned his landlady, "I wouldn't open that, Constable."

The constable in question sneered a scoff at him - quite an achievement really - before popping the lid off the red plastic lunchbox. His scream was quite girlish and John leapt forward to catch the severed ears - not a matching set - before they could land in the toaster.

"So that's where the ascorbic acid went," he muttered as he returned the offending body parts to the box and resealed it. Red was the colour they had finally decided on for the storage of body parts. It had only taken one incident of John almost cooking some severed fingers for Sherlock to get the idea.

"I only ask, John, because I was hoping to get your help with something later on," Mrs Hudson took the flying ears in stride, something that the landlady of Sherlock Holmes would have to do, "I'm doing a little home improvement and I need someone with reach who is handy with a screwdriver. I'd ask Sherlock, but after the last time... you remember dear, we had no power or water for a week, and I'm still not sure how he did it. It took three electricians, two plumbers and a plasterer to put it all right again."

"Not a problem," John nodded. He did indeed remember and was not eager for a repeat performance, "I'll be home about three, all things being equal."

"Lovely," Mrs Hudson smiled and turned for the door, "You have a nice day, John dear."

"Bye Mrs Hudson," John wove his way around Dave and the other constable. The coffee table now had three phones and two sets of manacles upon it, as well as a rusted dagger - or if it wasn't rust, John didn't want to know. He reached for his coat and swung it on, frowning when one of the pockets swung with more weight than it should have had. He flicked the collar straight and reached into the pocket, fingers scrabbling on the small round shape before pulling it free and holding it up to examine.

"Sherlock, why is Tweedledum in my pocket?" he asked. There was a pause in the 'drugs bust' as the official members of London's Law Enforcement took in the sight of Dr Watson holding a human skull aloft like an actor in Hamlet.

"He was arguing with Tweedledee," Sherlock's tone implied that it was obvious, "He needed a time out."

Tweedledee was sitting upstairs on John's dresser instead of a wedding ring. John had brought Tweedledum home when he realised that Sherlock missed having a skull about the place to talk to. His spouse had named the skulls in what John could only attribute to a fit of whimsy, sleep deprivation and an unfortunate introduction to red bull.

"Ok," John sighed and dropped the skull back into his pocket, knowing full well that if he left it behind Sherlock would do something with it that could get him arrested, "I'll see you later. Good morning Geoff."

"Morning, John," Geoff replied. John jogged lightly down the stairs, checking his key, phone, wallet and oyster card were in place before bounding out into the busy morning rush of commuter traffic.

Sixteen hours later he stepped back through his front door, weary beyond all belief and sporting a mildly sprained wrist. Tweedledum had suffered a small cranial fracture after John had thrown him at a fleeing suspect, not that the skull seemed to mind. Sighing he began to empty his pockets onto the hall table, checking that he had everything gingerly.

"I'll take your coat," Sherlock offered, "It needs to be binned anyway."

It certainly did - John would never be able to get the stains or the smell out properly and neither would the dry cleaners that Sherlock favoured. As Sherlock whisked off with the offending article, John collected the skull and trudged upstairs, depositing it on the mantle piece.

"That'll teach you to wind people up in this house, mate," he ran a finger over the small crack and shook his head at his own folly before heading into the kitchen to pop the kettle on. There was a bottle of vitamin C sitting beside it, and in the fridge there were three pints of milk.

John grinned and rummaged in the back of the cupboard for some digestives.

END

Disclaimer - characters and setting as depicted in Sherlock BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.


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